


On the Steps of the Palace

by newyorkmorning



Category: White Collar
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2416211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newyorkmorning/pseuds/newyorkmorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the northern, perpetually snowing city of Andal, palace guard Peter Burke keeps noticing an intruder in his grounds, and he's determined to find out who it is. He has a reputation to uphold, after all. Fantasy A/U fun-times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

The first time he found out there was an intruder in the palace, Peter hadn't even noticed. That was probably what riled him most, what hooked him most, about the whole thing: that he was meant to be a palace guard, and he hadn’t even noticed someone invading the damn palace. 

It had been an early morning start for him, rising to a surprisingly pretty rose sunrise over the city. The sun was never particularly warm on their wintery city, but the light put an easy smile on Peter’s face as he patrolled the upper corridors, and so perhaps he had let his guard down a little. If it had been raining, as it usually was, then maybe he wouldn’t have been so stupid. Maybe.

As it was, when Peter passed the royal chambers and walked straight into an unfamiliar young man wearing the Queen’s livery, he didn’t even bat an eyelid. The other man flashed him an infectious winning smile that Peter couldn’t help returning, and why wouldn’t he? It was a beautiful morning and he liked being on good terms with everyone in the palace.

“Aren’t you a little merry for a guard?” the kid had asked, with a warm good humour. “Should I surmise that there aren’t any interlopers scaling the walls?”

“You must be new,” Peter had teased back. “Nobody tries to scale the walls anymore.”

“What, too high? Or you guys are too fast?”

“A little from column A, a little from column B,” Peter shrugged. “Nobody would dare.”

“Good to know,” the boy had responded. “You know, just in case I was ever late for work or anything.”

“Well, if I see you up there, I’ll try not to shoot you down. Peter Burke,” Peter said, holding out his hand.

“You know, I’d appreciate that. And it’s Stephen - Stephen Tabernacle,” the kid had said, shaking Peter’s hand, then, reaching into his back pocket, he brought out a foil-wrapped chocolate and offered it to Peter. “For you, Peter Burke. As thanks for not shooting me.”

Peter grinned, thanked him, went on with his patrol, and thought nothing more about it - until just before lunch-time, when he snuck into the kitchen to find Elizabeth. Expecting to find the kitchen busy with serving staff, he instead found his wife cleaning down stoves and ordering the larder, with only a few of her assistants in sight.

“Isn’t it a little quiet in here?” Peter asked, bemused.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow as she peeped up at him from behind the counter. “Just taking stock a little, you know, while we have the time. You want me to bring in everyone to count how many onions we have? We’re handling it.”

“But – don’t you have to prepare the Queen’s... you know, whatever fancy thing it is she eats? Pate made of velvet-feathered geese feet and squatberries, or something?”

Elizabeth laughed; a musical giggle that Peter never tired of. “You made up squatberries.”

“You make up new foods all the time,” Peter muttered.

“Maybe,” Elizabeth conceded, “But not today. The Queen and her staff are out on procession this week. They’re not back until Sunday. You know that.”

Peter froze. “Sure. Of course. I knew that.”

“Hon?” Elizabeth prompted, coming out from behind the stove. “You sound... perturbed.”

Peter said nothing for a second, then shook his head a little. If they were all gone, then who exactly had he met in the corridor? 

“I... No. It’s nothing,” he said, decisively. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing, as it turned out.

 

\---

 

The second time, Peter didn’t even see him, but he knew. Just a note on a window ledge, found at the end of a late night patrol, weighted down with an arrow.

_You must have worked it out by now, and you still haven’t shot me. You’re either a man of your word or you ran out of arrows. Thought I should leave you one, just in case._

Peter made arrangements for more lookouts to watch the palace walls. They looked at him like he was a lunatic - who climbs a sheer hundred-foot high wall? – but they did as they were told.

Peter kept the note. On closer inspection, the arrow turned out to be made of chocolate, anyway, and he fed it to the puppy that Elizabeth was (only somewhat illegally) keeping in the kitchen dormitories. The dog seemed to like it, at least.

\---

Peter would prefer not to acknowledge the third, fourth, fifth or sixth times. Finding a wrapped chocolate inside one of his shoes had not been a high point. Especially not when he found at at the end of the day, rather than the beginning. 

\---

 

The seventh time, it wasn’t Peter who saw him first, or even any of the other guards - it was Elizabeth, during the royal engagement celebrations.

The palace was bustling with so many of Andal’s aristocracy that it made it impossible to keep tabs on everyone, or to pass through a crowd of them without choking on a fog of colognes and perfumes. As he passed between two nobles, who were deeply engaged in a heated discussion of the palace’s antique sword display, Peter caught the attention of the palace’s weapon-smith, Jones, and rolled his eyes.

“Those two wouldn’t know what to do with a sword if it had the instructions written on it,” Jones muttered derisively into Peter’s ear as they passed each other in their sweep of the room. “Easy to claim you’re an expert when you’ve never had to fight anybody and prove it.”

“You want to ask them to put their money where their mouth is?” murmured Peter.

“You know, if anyone asks me again to top up their drink, I just might.” 

Peter was about to respond when he felt a hand at his elbow. He whirled, to find Elizabeth looking up at him, looking somewhat harried with a tray of complicated-looking hors d’oeuvres balanced on her left hand.

“Peter,” she whispered, intently, with a nod behind him. “Who’s that? Isn’t he a little young for this party?”

Peter turned to look, and his jaw dropped a little. The not-so-servant, this time without the livery and with a sharp suit, talking blithely with the other party goers. How had Peter missed this? How did he even get in? Had the kid climbed the damn wall again? Peter turned back quickly to Elizabeth.

“Don’t stare. Talk to me. How did you notice?” he asked her, although he didn’t suppose it mattered too much.

“Actually,” Elizabeth replied, hesistantly. “He, um – he thanked me for all the work we were putting in. And –“

Peter nodded. “And what?”

“And he said my eyes were ‘very captivating’. No-one says that to the serving staff. And definitely no-one says it to the kitchen staff. I only came up here because everyone else was already serving, and no-one’s ever even noticed me, so I figured why not, and then he doesn’t just notice, he...” Elizabeth tailed off, with an indefinable gesture at their mystery guest.

“I notice you,” said Peter, affronted in spite of himself, then shook his head. Not the point. “Thanks hon. I’ll handle it from here.”

Elizabeth nodded, her eyes wide, then she gave his hand a gentle squeeze and left to approach a nearby group with the silver tray of whatever ridiculous tiny foods they were serving tonight.

Peter crossed the room quickly, to Jones, who seemed to have given a body swerve to the self-confessed weapons experts. “Clinton, I need you to do me a favour.”

“Sure,” said Jones, quietly, considering. “What’s up, boss?”

“Don’t look at them yet, but I need you to go over, talk to that group over there, by the painting of the ice field.”

“They causing trouble?” Jones asked, vaguely amused. “Not enough alcohol in the punch?”

“No trouble yet,” Peter said lowly, determinedly not casting a glance over his shoulder. “But the kid – dark hair, blue eyes –“

“The good looking one who looks like he’s got no business with them, you mean.”

“I thought I said not to look.”

“Did you see me look?” Jones defended. “I was subtle.”

Peter snorted. “Yeah. That one. Do me a favour – go over there. Talk to him. Shake his hand; try to get a read on him.”

Jones cast Peter a quizzical look. “You mean, a read on him like, what’s his favourite desert, or you mean a literal read on him? You want me to read his registration tattoo?”

Andal was a walled city in the middle of a desolate northern landscape. Vast industrial greenhouses by the southern wall provided everyone with a limited ration, but the system could only support so many. Every child born inside Andal, maximum one per household, was given a mark – eight digits, onto the tip of each finger, under the fingernails – and their name was recorded in the Living Registry. Getting someone’s number without their having offered it up was a little bit of a taboo, but screw it. Peter was going to find out who their mystery guest was, by any means necessary. “Yeah, Jones. That. Do it.”

“No problem. But if they think I’m a waiter? You owe me.”

Peter nodded. “I’ll buy you a drink later. And it won’t come in a flute glass, I promise.”

He watched Jones move off through the crowd, and went to notify the other guards to be on the watch for anyone leaving in a hurry. Not that they’d noticed anyone suspicious on the way in, but hope sprang eternal.

Taking up a position near the east window, Peter watched Jones interact with the group – including the kid, who seemed brazenly determined not to be phased by talking to a palace guard. Then again, it wasn’t the first time, was it?

Jones kept up the act for maybe twenty minutes, but by the end of it, he’d hand signalled eight numbers to Peter, then with a slight bow, he took his leave of them and slowly strolled a circuit of the room, before stopping near Peter, angling himself away towards the drinks tables.

“You got it?” Jones asked softly.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Stay here. Keep an eye on him. See what he does. I’m going to check the records.”

“You want me to stop him if he tries to leave?”

“Tail him if you can. See what he does. We don’t know what he’s doing here, or if he’s dangerous.”

“He’s a stowaway in the King’s house, Peter,” said Jones. “Don’t we have to assume they’re all dangerous, after the last one?”

Peter glanced darkly at Jones, nodded, and strode off towards the servants’ staircase, and down towards the Living Registry, in the bowels of the palace. 

 

\---

 

The eighth time was really an addendum to the seventh time, but Peter was still going to count it as a win: the first time he was the one to recognise their intruder, and maybe the first time the kid hadn’t either planned it or spotted him first. 

Taking the steps two at a time, Peter had raced back up from the palace’s lower levels, through the cloakrooms. At a rustle of movement, he’d slowed in the doorway, not wanting to alarm any partygoers leaving for the night. Just as well, really, because it wasn’t any of their rich, well-dined guests - it was him, the trespasser himself, leaning with one hand against the wall, loosening his collar, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. Peter narrowed his eyes in assessment: he wasn’t sure he’d seen the kid drinking – and if Peter had been in those shoes, he wouldn’t have done anything that stupid either - but maybe that was what he was looking at. The boy seemed to be almost propping himself up on the wall; a sharp contrast to his earlier sophistication in the main hall.

“You gave Jones the slip then, I see,” Peter said, announcing himself. In retrospect, that was a mistake. The kid spun round, eyes wide, with a speed Peter hadn’t thought possible – maybe not drunk then – and bolted out past him, down the dizzying spiral staircase that led to the main yard.

“Fuck,” announced Peter, and took off after him.

\---

There were days, Peter reflected, when he really, truly, flat-out detested his dress uniform. Stiff, starchy trousers; an inches-thick wool coat with three different kinds of braiding on the cuffs and collar – and who really needs three kinds of braiding? – and the pointiest, shiniest, least functional pair of shoes the world had ever seen. As a soldier’s uniform, Peter would tell anyone who listened – and that was mainly just Elizabeth – this was totally impractical. Who wants a guard in a northern city who slips and brains himself at the first sign of a light frost?

Fucking ridiculous, really, but Hughes had made it repeatedly clear to the whole guard that the full uniform was distinctly not optional on days like today. So there it was, and here was Peter, doing his manful best not to do himself an injury as he ran – dressed like a bloody peacock – after the man he’d been trying abortively to catch for the better part of two months.

A man who, incidentally, had been wearing considerably fewer layers than Peter at the start of this whole escapade, and who now seemed determined to rid himself of what little he still had, desperately flinging his shirt from his back as he bolted full-pelt through the Walk.

The Walk was the Old Town’s nearest thing to a shopping district; a warm, narrow, winding alley of timber-fronted shops, of all heights, shapes and crooked designs; buildings that reached out to touch each other at the rooftops, and conspired to leave the street below in constant gloom, lit by orange firelight through bottleglass shop windows. Sellers spilled out into the streets, with necessities and novelties laid on colourful rugs on the uneven cobbles; everything from bread rolls to suspiciously polished gemstones, and a plethora of miniature wooden carvings of various animals, domestic and exotic - some of which Peter would struggle to identify even if he had the time.

It was almost dark – insofar as that made a difference when you stood in the shadow of the Walk – and business was obviously winding to a close, as Peter weaved his way between the trip-hazard rugs, the last minute customers, and the and those few merchants who actually owned a premise, who were now engaged in shutting up shop for the night.

A fragile-looking elderly man, packing away small glass figurines, grunted as the discarded shirt of Peter’s new acquaintance caught him squarely in the face. Without slowing, Peter reached out to him, and the glass-seller held the shirt out and away from his face in a perplexed two-finger pinch. Peter grabbed it without stopping, but then, running on, a sudden spike of manners hit him, and he hollered back a thanks to the man now several shopfronts behind him. If Peter didn’t catch his man now, then it might help later to have anything, even a dirty cotton shirt, that might help identify him. The vendor had done him a service, handing it over, and if Peter’s mother had given him one thing, it was grudging good manners.

A gift he was eternally grateful for, in fact, when hearing Peter’s shout, his runner friend turned his head back to look, and duly stumbled over a carpet full of pots and kettles, sending them crashing across the Walk. He stumbled, clapping his hands over his ears: a gesture that seemed a little over-dramatic, given the circumstances. The metallic clang and rattle of the pans on the cobbles did grate on Peter’s ears, but you would think that, running for your life, you could put up with a little background noise. Obviously not.

As Peter caught up to him, the young man staggered again, tripping himself on a raised front step, and throwing out a hand haphazardly to catch himself on a dimly glowing shop window. In the process, he nearly blindsided a passing young woman, who was struggling herself with a rolled-up carpet nearly as tall as she was. She startled at the sudden contact, throwing up her hands, and the carpet promptly unravelled into the gutter, scattering tiny beads and buttons at their feet.

“I’m – I’m sorry – I’m so – fuck –“, the kid breathed, scrambling to help her even as she fought him off. “Please, I – oh – God –“

“It’s alright, it’s alright, I can manage –“, the girl replied, trying to fend him off - or maybe even trying to console him, Peter reflected, as the kid swayed back a few steps, flustered and unstable.

Peter could see clearly what was about to happen, and almost leapt the last few feet, reaching them just as the kid’s knees seemed to buckle under him. Peter lunged to catch him, lowering him to the ground, his back against Peter’s chest, and Peter’s stiff white dress trousers very definitely in the gutter. He couldn’t say he was too sorry about that, although he’d likely get himself an earful for it later.

The girl, left now to gather herself, quietly picked up as many of her things as she could and walked smartly on, with a dark backward glance. Peter couldn’t tell if it was borne of fear of strangers on the street at night, or worry for the boy in front of him, but either way, Peter couldn’t exactly blame her. At close quarters, there was a surprising heat burning through the kid’s thin undershirt and Peter could feel the way he struggled for every breath. Peter couldn’t claim he wasn’t a little hot under the collar from the run, but nothing this bad, and in any case, Peter was a little older – at least, he thought he was - and wearing enough wool for at least five sheep. 

“Didn’t think I was going to have to literally catch you,” Peter murmured by way of an icebreaker. It didn’t seem to ease things much; the kid stared straight ahead, eyes wide, chest heaving, dismay, disbelief and sheer confusion playing across his face. He coughed raggedly once, twice, and awkwardly twisted to tilt his head up towards Peter.

“You can’t. You can’t have caught me. Fuck, I – please – please just let me – Peter – please,“ he begged, the words spilling out in staccato bursts.

“Let you go? Not happening, I’m afraid, kiddo,” said Peter, as gently as his deep rumble of a voice could feasibly manage, and feeling a little like he was talking to a trapped bird. “Calm down. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“But you would?”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“You don’t – you don’t want to, but you would – if you had to?”

“Why, are you going to take a swing at me?”

The idea was laughable. Peter was six foot two in socks, and he’d never once lost a fight, even to the rest of the Guard. The kid – well, he was maybe Peter’s height, and certainly wiry, but Peter wasn’t sure if he could lift his own arms at this present moment. Still, the suggestion wrung a wry smile out of Peter’s wayward friend, who wheezed and shook his head.

“Then I think we’re good for now,” Peter concluded.

“If we’re ‘good’, then you can let me go.”

Peter looked at him, assessing. “You’re right. Go on then. Up you get.”

There was a brief pause. Teary blue eyes looked into Peter’s momentarily, searching for a catch, then the kid put his hands down on the cobbles, pushed himself up all of about two inches - then collapsed back onto Peter’s chest with a choked out sob.

“That’s what I thought. Easy. Breathe,” said Peter, softly, shifting to support his charge a little more. “Now that we’re here: I’ve got a few questions.”

Anywhere else, any other time, Peter would have expected a crowd to form by now. Not necessarily a helpful crowd, but at the very least, a nosy one. But on the Walk after dark, with the Short Drop Inn at one end and the Ice and Eagle at the other, it wasn’t too unusual to see the occasional drunk sprawled on the ground, and it was easy to make assumptions. It might have been a little unusual to see an Andal Guard handling the situation – that sort of encounter was well beneath their stature – but no-one was going to question why he cared. You didn’t question the only armed men in the city. Of course, law-abiding citizens had nothing to fear from Peter, but they didn’t know him that way, and they certainly couldn’t guarantee the same of all his brethren, so the few people still clearing the Walk gave them a wide berth.  
“I looked you up, you know,” Peter began, quietly. “That name you gave me last time I saw you. Stephen Tabernacle, wasn’t it?”

The boy closed his eyes. “Of course you did. Couldn’t you just have let it go?”

“I don’t do that. I don’t let things go.”

“I’m starting to get that,” the kid gasped. His breathing was coming no easier, and Peter put a hand on his chest, pressing lightly in and out to encourage him to take deep breaths, trying to prolong the conversation for as long as he could.

“I looked you up,” Peter repeated slowly. “You’re not on the city lists.”

Admittedly, the Living Registry didn’t cover absolutely everyone. Peter himself wasn’t on it, he knew – none of the royal guard families were registered – but that was the only exception. Not to be on the registry – well, he wasn’t sure what that meant for this kid.

A bitter wind rustled up the street, but only Peter seemed to feel it, his eyes watering with the cold even as the rest of him felt like it was stewing under his thick coat. The boy opened his eyes again, glassy with fever, and looked up at him. Peter fixed him with his most interrogative look.

“How do you know I didn’t just give you the wrong name?” the boy said, raising one eyebrow, with a confident grin he couldn’t quite pull off under the circumstances.

“Because,” said Peter steadily, “I got Jones to get your mark. I thought you might not be straight with us, so I got something you couldn’t lie about.”

The kid’s mouth moved in surprised. “That’s – impressive, yet also disturbing.”

“That’s what all the ladies tell me,” Peter quipped.

“I can’t believe you memorised my mark,” the kid said, wonderingly, clearly more impressed than outraged by the invasion. “Little personal for a first date, isn’t it?”

“First date,” said Peter flatly. “Let’s review. You turned up to the royal engagement party without an invite, impersonated a member of the Queen’s staff, and I don’t know, either climbed or magicked yourself into my grounds. Repeatedly. Do you want to talk about personal?”

“Point taken.”

Peter shook his head and turned back to the task at hand. “I checked that ridiculous name you gave me, and I checked your mark. Either way - you’re not on the list.”

“No,” the kid agreed, slowly, in a considered way. “You’re right. I’m not.”

Despite himself, Peter’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. Logically, he knew it was an option, but he hadn’t expected to hear it confirmed. “But - you can’t just not be on the list. You can’t just casually opt out of it,” he sputtered.

“Looks like I just did.”

“But you can’t. They check. The census. You couldn’t just...” Peter tailed off, at a loss.

“I don’t know what else you want me to tell you,”

“The truth.”

“I’m not lying.”

“I’m going to need more proof than your word on that,” Peter muttered.

“You’ve got living, breathing proof, right here,” the boy rasped, clutching his fingers into the wool of Peter’s trousers. “Actually - I think – ‘breathing’ is overstating it.”

Peter hummed lowly in agreement: the kid’s lips were taking on a blue tinge he suspected were nothing to do with the cold. Putting two and two together, Peter followed a hunch and reached for the damp hem at the back of the boy’s undershirt. He startled and made to flap Peter’s hand away.

“Will you relax?” Peter hissed. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Buy me a drink first.”

Peter ignored him, and pulled the shirt up a few inches at the back. Underneath, livid on pale skin, were a series of dark purple spots. Peter breathed out through his teeth. “Anna’s Pox.”

The kid affected a nonchalant stare, but the quiver of his lower lip gave him away a little. Peter suspected maybe he’d been trying to deny it until now. “Nothing gets by you. Let me go, and I’ll find a doctor.”

“Stop it,” said Peter. “We’ve got to get you inside somewhere.”

“What, now you’re concerned for my welfare all of a sudden?”

“Did I say that?” Peter asked, denying all knowledge. “I want to know who you are, and why I keep finding you’ve been in my house. I want to know why and how you exist, and then after that we’re done.”

The kid’s eyes seemed to dull a little, and he closed them again. Peter winced internally: maybe that had been too harsh – the kid didn’t seem to have anyone else - but it was too late to take it back now. He looked around for anywhere that might offer a quick route indoors; somewhere he could feasibly get them both out of the cold without doing his back in. 

“It’s Neal,” his charge rasped, abruptly, as Peter considered and then discarded a nearby dark alleyway.

“What?” Peter turned back to look at him, but his eyes were still closed.

“Neal. My real name is Neal. And I – God, I –“, he choked out, then gasped and arched slightly away from Peter’s knees. “I - I don’t know ‘why or how’ I exist.”

“I didn’t really mean that,” Peter stopped him, more firmly than he felt. “It’s alright. We’re going to fix this, and then we can talk later.”

“But I think,” Neal continued as if Peter hadn’t spoken, his words coming out in an anxious rush, “I think – Peter, I think I might be dying anyway, and then you won’t have to worry about it anymore and I – oh, _fuck_ – I – I can’t - this _hurts._ ”

Peter looked down at him desperately. The kid sounded surprised and terrified, his whole body trembling, and Peter’s heart suddenly ached for him: Neal couldn’t be much more than his late twenties, and he might not have much time left. Peter had been grasping at straws, he knew, telling him he could fix this. Anna’s Pox was rife in the city at this time of year, and more often than not, it was fatal, Neal was right. There was nothing anyone could do but wait it out and see. He put a hand to the kid’s forehead – mostly as a comfort; he could feel his fever fine enough already without checking for it – and Neal moaned softly, and then passed out; a dead weight against Peter’s chest.

Peter wasn’t usually a panicking kind of guy – there were few people who could intimidate him, and there wasn’t much he was afraid of – but this kid, this kid he barely knew, suddenly had him searching desperately for back-up. For a doctor. For any help at all. But there was none to be had in the now deserted street. A whole swathe of thoughts went rushing through Peter’s head, but the only one he could catch and hold onto was this: _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in putting up this chapter! Had a bit of a hectic fortnight with job interviews, but this should hopefully be updated at least once a week from now on.

"Well, this is a surprise. Lieutenant Burke.” 

Peter felt himself breathe a tentative sigh of relief, despite everything. There was something about June Ellington's warm alto voice that was a balm like nothing else.

Back in the days when Peter and Elizabeth had been trying to keep their relationship quiet - unsure how the palace might take to two of their staff being engaged - they’d spent a lot of time with June at the Ellington Inn. Long before that, the Inn had once been the most infamous gambling establishment in town, but by the time Peter and Elizabeth found their way there, it had become something more readily described as a kind of hostel in the guise of a plush boudoir; a surprisingly lush home for waifs and strays. June never charged anyone to stay there: if she trusted you, sympathised with you, you were free to stay as long as you liked. Honestly, it made little financial sense to Peter: he suspected, but would never investigate to confirm, that it was entirely founded on her late husband's gambling profits - but June had always been there for them in the past.

“June,” Peter replied, slightly breathless, “I’m sorry this isn’t a social call.”

She walked round to them from behind the varnished oak bar, running a hand along the polished but disused brass pumps - a nod to the old inn days - and Peter saw her eyes widen as she took in the young man in his arms.

"Oh Lord," June breathed, "what did you do now?"

Peter snorted in surprise. "Me? I didn't do anything. I'm just trying to help him."

June spared Peter a sympathetic glance as she put one hand to Neal's forehead. “My apologies, dear. I wasn't speaking to you."

Peter blinked. "You know him?"

"We've been known to meet on occasion," June replied, suddenly guarded in a way that threw Peter off-balance. "Are you asking as the friend I let stay here, or are you asking as a palace guard?"

"Both. As a friend. I don't know," Peter shook his head. "This was the first place I could think to bring him. I didn't give it a lot of thought."

"Then, let's revisit this conversation when you have thought about it," June said, and beckoned two serving hands over. "But for now, I think we can agree there are more pressing matters. There's a free room on the first floor – Michael, Grant, can you see Peter to -"

"Wait!" Peter threw up one hand to the men, holding onto Neal with the other arm. "Wait. Wait. I'm pretty sure he's infectious. I can do this on my own."

The serving hands stopped hesitantly, and June moved to help Peter support Neal, casting a softly scolding look at Peter. "Because the big stern palace guards are so immune?"

"No, because I've already had it. June, he has Anna's Pox."

The two servants recoiled at Peter's announcement, taking a subtle collective step backward. June's face fell, her expression dark with dismay, but she didn't move an inch. Frankly, she looked ready to wrestle Neal from Peter's grasp and carry him upstairs herself.

Peter looked to June's servants, hoping it wasn't too forward to ask anything of them, but at the same time, feeling too frantic to give it much thought. He took his silver guard's crest from his coat and threw it to Michael, who caught it, puzzled. "That's going to get you past the palace gates. I need you to go to the kitchens and ask for Elizabeth Burke. Tell her it's about some poisoned meringues – those words – and I need her to come to June's, and then make sure she gets here safely. Can you do that?"

Michael nodded keenly, looking quietly ecstatic to be given an excuse to leave this plague house, and turned on his heel, disappearing through the door in a swish of well-pressed coat-tails.

Before Peter could protest, June had one of Neal's arms over her shoulders, and the other slung over Peter's back. Between them, and at an awkward limping pace, they made their way to the back of the inn, and up the wide, uneven wooden staircase. Although their collective height difference made things a little harder, Peter had to concede June's surprising strength at his side - the woman was never anything but tenacious.

Halfway up the stairs, Peter heard a soft, coughing moan from between them, as Neal woke and tried abortively to raise his head to look at them. June whipped a white satin handkerchief from her pocket as he coughed, and shushed him gently, while Peter tried to keep all three of them steady on the midway landing.

"Hush now, hush," June whispered, "You're alright. You're going to be alright. You’re safe here.”

Neal shook his head so violently he fell into Peter, who grabbed for the bannister and tightened his grip on the kid, as June slipped out to brace him with her hands on his shoulders.

"No - I - June?" Neal gasped out.

June nodded, and cupped her hand under his chin. "Yes. Everything is going to be fine."

Neal shook his head almost imperceptibly, and whispered something barely more than whistling breaths. _Not this time_ , Peter thought he said, although he wasn’t sure. 

June’s whole expression changed. If Peter had thought her guarded tone with him earlier had been intimidating, he quickly revised that now, and thanked God he wasn't on the receiving end of this particular glare. "Young man, you are going to fight this, and I won't hear of anything less. Do we understand each other?"

Neal blinked at her, started to shake his head again, stopped, nodded hesitantly, then abruptly fell into an explosion of coughs so vicious Peter had to force him not to double over. After a few minutes of struggle, Peter felt the fight go out of him entirely, and June came back to resume their position to navigate the rest of the stairs.

"Peter," said June, quietly, catching his attention. He looked to her; her recent strict discipline was now replaced with a soft-eyed worry, and in her open right hand was the white handkerchief. It was ruined, stained with blotches of deep red. "He doesn't have much time left."

\---

When Elizabeth first met Peter, it was in the palace kitchens. She’d been busy preparing for a banquet in honour of some guest or other, when she felt the sensation of someone watching her. It wasn’t unusual in the kitchens – the new staff had to watch food preparations if they were going to learn – but she was only cleaning a work surface at the time, and that hardly needed demonstrating. She swivelled, and noticed an unfamiliar figure, dressed in the formal palace guards’ uniform, lingering at the door. Tall, shy, with a face she instantly wanted to trust, and eyes that were currently darting awkwardly all over the room, insistently looking anywhere other than at her. Elizabeth put down the cloth, and approached him.

“Can I help?” she smiled.

“I’m sure you can,” he said, clearing his throat.

There was a pause. Elizabeth raised her eyebrows.

“Right. Yes. I’m Peter. Peter Burke. They sent me down to check the menu for tonight.” 

Elizabeth’s eyebrows remained raised. “That’s a guard’s job, now?”

Peter sighed. “No, no, not really. They just like to prove a point with the new recruits. Make sure we get in line. Some of the senior guards have a God complex. Actually, you know what, don’t tell anyone I said that. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, I promise,” she grinned, and held out her hand. “Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth. That’s a – a very nice name. Well,” Peter gabbled, “It’s been lovely to meet you Elizabeth. I should really go.”

He turned and was halfway out the door, before Elizabeth reached out and touched his shoulder. “Peter.”

He turned back, flustered, and she looked at him, trying to look meaningful. Peter’s gaze was blankly embarrassed. 

“The menu,” she grinned. “All you have is my name, and I’m not even the entrees.”

“No, you’d definitely be the main course,” Peter said, then his eyes widened as if he didn’t believe that had even left his mouth. “If we were going to eat you, I mean. Which we’re not. Obviously. Not that you wouldn’t be - Oh God. Please, just give me the menu and I’ll never bother you again. I promise.” 

He hadn’t kept that promise though. He’d been back down the next day, and the day after that, on what were increasingly spurious missions from the guards. Checking the salad for scorpions. Making sure the steak knives weren’t sharp enough to pose a threat to a state dinner. Checking no-one was smuggling explosives into the palace, disguised as onions. 

To start with, Elizabeth thought it might be some kind of hazing, but quickly, she started to realise that he only ever came down when she was around. On further investigation, she discovered that no-one else had even met him in the kitchens, except if they’d been in the room when she was there. The whole thing seemed to be an adorably inept way of flirting with her, and she was happy to let it go on that way for a while, but a girl could only be patient for so long. Finally, she called him on it two weeks later, as he walked into the kitchen shortly after breakfast. 

“What is it this time?” she asked, teasing and light. “Is someone poisoning the meringues?”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Do you think they are?”

“No – I just wondered why our kitchens were suddenly so high in the guards’ concerns. Is there something I should know? Something you want to tell me?” 

Elizabeth paused, hoping he might take the opening. No such luck. 

“Oh, well, I didn’t realise we were bothering you,” Peter trailed off, fiddling with his cuffs, blushing slightly. “If you feel like you’ve got work to do, I’ll just...” And then before Elizabeth could round the counter and stop him, he’d already left, taking the stairs two at a time and nearly knocking over a sack of potatoes as he went. 

The next morning, Elizabeth had taken matters into her own hands. She’d made out a banner, and unrolled it out of the second floor kitchen window that faced onto the guards’ barracks. _I made you some meringues. May be poisoned. Please come and inspect._ He’d been there in less than ten minutes.

\---

Now, as Elizabeth walked briskly through the town with her young, overly nervous, and probably not particularly effectual bodyguard, she didn’t know what to expect. Peter wasn’t in trouble – not if the code-word summons to deal with poisoned meringues was anything to go by – but they didn’t have to skulk around anymore. They hadn’t stayed at June’s in a long time. Why she was here now was totally beyond her. 

They reached June’s, and Elizabeth felt a hesitant hand at her shoulder. The serving boy who’d come to fetch her. He bit his lip awkwardly, then took a step back away from the door. “I’m going to let you go here, ma’am.”

Elizabeth blinked. “Don’t you work here?”

The boy nodded, looking inexplicably shifty, all of a sudden. “I’ll go in through the stables. All the horses to take care of, you know.”

“There are a lot of guests here tonight?” Elizabeth asked, surprised. “I mean, for the stables to be full. It’s been a while.”

“Sure.”

“Only, it looks pretty quiet,” she said, peering through the window by the door.

“Well, no, I –“ the boy froze. “Ma’am, please don’t make me go in there. I haven’t had it and I don’t want any part of it, alright?”

He backed off then, and Elizabeth was about to ask him to explain what exactly he didn’t want a part of, when suddenly the inn door banged open, and Elizabeth found herself face to face with her husband, looking harried and more stressed than she’d seen him in years.

“Elizabeth,” Peter breathed, putting his arms around her. “Thank god.”

“Hon,” she said, muffled by Peter’s shoulder, “You know I love June’s, but what’s going on?”

Peter gave himself a shake and stepped back. “I’m sorry hon, I just – I need you to do something for me. The kid from the dinner –“

“The one who’s been leaving you notes around the palace.”

Peter paused. “Yes. That one. He’s upstairs.”

“And -“ Elizabeth tried to wrap her head around the situation, “And you want me to... guard him? Hon, you know I’m happy to help, but wouldn’t Jones have been a better choice?”

“No - I don’t need you to guard him. Well, I do, in a manner of speaking,” Peter stopped, rubbing his temples.

“Okay, let’s back up here,” Elizabeth said, taking one of his hands and giving it a squeeze. “What happened?”

“I chased the kid down to the Walk, and then – well, he passed out. I probably wouldn’t have caught him otherwise.”

Despite herself, Elizabeth felt a little jolt of concern for the bright-eyed man she’d met in the main hall. “Is he alright?”

Peter shook his head, a frown pursing his lips. “No. His name is Neal, and he’s got Anna’s Pox. I mean, really got it. You know I wouldn’t ever put you at risk, but I’m so sorry, hon - you’re the only other person I know who can’t catch it again. He needs a doctor, so I’m going to find one now, but someone needs to keep an eye on him, and June wants to help, but I don’t want her getting sick. I shouldn’t even have brought him here, but I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t know if we can fix this, El.”

Before Peter could finish, Elizabeth had made up her mind. She moved past him through the door into the inn, throwing off her winter coat onto the rack into the corner. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and turned to look at her husband, feeling calm settle on her like sturdy armour. “Show me.”


End file.
